Batman: Born of Evil
by Batguy
Summary: An ultimatization of Batman. Features many twists and surprise changes from comic continuity I hope. The origin of the Ultimate Dark Knight. It all begins during a rather bloody gang war... read on, true believers! Excelsisor! wait a minute...


_**BATMAN: BORN OF EVIL**_

**__**

**_Disclaimer: The day I own the characters of Batman et al, you'll know it. A'ight?_**

_**CHAPTER ONE: In the beginning…**_

"Blood is flowing down the streets. Gotham City had always been a cess pool of crime and corruption. Now, it is an abattoir. An abattoir with people dying like lambs to the slaughter. Our people dying. Their people. Civilians. Everyone. This has to end, gentlemen. We must win this war. The bloodshed cannot go on."

Thomas Wayne spoke to an entranced audience. He stroked his thin moustache, running across the parting in the middle.

"Thomas." It was Rupert Thorne speaking- another member of Wayne's somewhat aristocratic crime cabal, primarily made up of Wayne himself, Thorne, Oswald 'Penguin' Cobblepot and Roland 'The Blockbuster' Desmond.

"We agree, Thomas, we do. This war has to stop," Thorne smiled slightly. It made the hairs on the back of Thomas' neck stand up, which was practically unheard of from the tough crime lord. Thorne spoke on, icily, "But we _are _worried about you, Thomas. Maybe you should take a rest."

"You know I can't do that, Rupert," The moustached criminal snapped back, "It's impossible! This war has to end before any of us can get a damn night's sleep!"

"I suppose so," Thorne was disappointed. Thomas was worried about that man. He was dangerous, "We shall indeed see."

The door swung open. Alfred Pennyworth stood in the doorway. He was as aristocratic as any of the men, but he served as Wayne's downtrodden butler. Rumour had it that Mr. Pennyworth was the voice of his master's conscience, and that they spent many nights arguing.

Alfred did indeed feel that way. Wayne had suffered such an argument last night.

"_How can you send those young men out to die or kill other young men with a clean conscience, sir!?" _Alfred had shouted as Thomas sent a cluster of local punks out to attack the residence of Carmine Falcone, Wayne's rival and the leader of Gotham's main European Cartel, alongside Sal 'The Boss' Maroni, Roman Sionis and the much feared arms dealer and madman Carleton LeHah, a psychotic and some kind of heathen, or so they said.

Thomas had replied angrily, knowing Alfred was loyal to the Wayne legacy, but not infallible- he disliked Thomas' criminality:

"_Bullshit, Alfred! My conscience is suffering here as much as any man's, but I have a job to do! This city will be mine!_ _I'm not gonna fail now, Alfred!"_

"_Think of Master Bruce, sir…" _Alfred had whined. And Thomas had spoken sorrowfully for the first time:

"_Don't you realise that I worry about Bruce every day!? I think about sending him away! To shield him from the sins of his father, but I just can't do it! Alfred, I love my son with all my heart, but…"_

And then, Alfred had, in his anger, said the wrong thing:

"_I know the promise made to Martha as she died, sir! Never forget that, for every time someone dies in your name, be they working for Falcone, you or anyone else, you break that promise. Every time! Just remember that, Master Wayne. Remember that."_

Thomas had stormed out of the room after that, but he knew Alfred was right. Martha Wayne would have been ashamed of him. He had broken an unbreakable promise: that which he swore to his wife on her death bed.

Thomas Wayne sighed, sipping his glass of champagne.

"Would you gentlemen care to go home for the night?" He muttered, "I am _very _sorry, but… I have some thinking to do."

"Of course, Thomas," Replied Thorne. _That prick always had to have the first word, and the last, damn him!_

"Goodbye, Wayne," Cobblepot mumbled as he hobbled from the room. Oswald suffered from a debilitating physical condition. He suffered stunted vertical growth, warped features and had the general appearance of a human/penguin hybrid.

"I'll see you soon, Bruce," Roland Desmond smiled thinly at him. He was a huge man, with long dark hair, wearing a black suit and tie.

"Bye," Thomas tried to smile. He failed miserably. As the door closed on the trio, the crime lord slipped down the door and sank to the carpeted floor, clutching a near empty champagne glass in one hand and a new bottle in the other. He hurled the glass at the wall in frustration, then wrenched open the new bottle with what must have been a feat of superhuman strength, draining it totally.

He slowly drifted into sleep…

Bruce Wayne was in a very bad mood. His father was in another _damn _meeting. The thirteen year old boy lashed out with his foot in a roundhouse kick, knocking the punch bad looping upwards.

He heard applause.

"Excellent, Bruce. You really are coming on very well," The teenager who it was by the feminine Asian voice, though Sandra Wu-San's accent was tough, showing she was no ordinary woman. Sandra was Bruce's martial arts instructor, a harsh disciplinarian and a deadly warrior. Thomas had hired her first shortly after Martha Wayne's death, trying to find a distraction for Bruce.

It had worked. The kid was now an expert in thirteen martial arts disciplines and a terrific athlete in general. He ignored his instructor's applause for a moment, focusing on pounding the punch bag, even going so far as to somersault over it and inflict various _lethal _blows on it. Sandra have never shied away from teaching her favourite student the deadliest of attacks. She had even gone so far as to train Bruce in wielding weaponry such as the katana, nunchuks and Bruce's personal favourite, shuriken. He had developed quite the lethal throw with the projectiles, which he positively refused to refer to under their street name of 'throwing stars'.

"Bruce. Come here," The woman rose from her seat. Her young pupil somersaulted over to her.

"Yes, Mistress Wu-San?" He asked.

"Someone is coming here tonight," She said quietly.

"Who?" Bruce was puzzled. _Who was coming that Sandra Wu-San would be worried about?_

"Dangerous men- enemies of your father. You have to come with me- now. We have to be long gone when they arrive, or they will hunt you down and murder you," She answered, "Pack only what you need in one bag, we leave within ten minutes."

"What? Is dad coming?" Bruce looked visibly scared.

"No, he cannot. This is his business and though he wishes to keep you here, he knows he cannot in truth. You will come with me or die here. I am sorry," The woman did look genuinely apologetic, sorrowful even. That was rare from Mistress Wu-San and Bruce knew he had to go.

"Yes… just let me say goodbye," Bruce wanted to cry.

"You can't. Your father won't let you go… but you have to come!"

"But, surely…?"

"My student! _This is not a debate, it is an order!_" Sandra glared at him, "Hurry. Pack. And do not tell your father, Bruce. Do not tell your father!"

Sandra and Bruce drove out of Wayne Manor on her motorbike. As they raced away, Bruce wondered if he would ever see his father again. It seemed unlikely, because, as he had already realised, Sandra's fear must be something terrible. Something truly deadly. More than even she could handle…

Thomas Wayne knocked on his son's bedroom door.

"Bruce? Bruce? Dinner time!" He called. No reply. He opened the door. No one was in the room. He knew what had happened, _"Damn you, Wu-San!"_

He heard a gunshot. The sound of the front door crashing open soon followed it. Twelve men with shotguns stood in the hallway, Thomas staring down at them. One of them looked up… he tried to scream… a single gunshot sounded, and for Thomas Wayne, the years of pain and indecision were over, the remains of his head merging with the wallpaper…


End file.
